Delirium
by Maiisbuns
Summary: In Ishval, there some horrors even Roy can't get away from.


**Delirium**

There isn't enough time before briefing to stomach a ration, but Roy thinks the water should be enough. Winds are heading west today, he'll have to be mindful not to let any of the flames travel.

Canvas smacks against the tent posts and the stakes rattle with every gust. Everything he owns is covered in sand. Roy tries to dust off his boots and shirt one at a time, knowing the moment he steps outside they'll just be coated again.

On his way out he finds Hughes helping load a truck.

"Heading out?" Roy asks.

"Bright and early, as usual." Maes grunts as he hoists a crate into the truck bed. "There's a couple of small jobs to get done before they bring in the heavy artillery."

"You mean before anything of value is unsalvageable."

"Exactly." Hughes says, "How are you holding up?"

"I guess I'm still a bit shaken up about Heathcliff."

"I didn't want to. But I didn't have a choice."

"I know." Roy sighs, "We're all just doing what needs to be done."

"It's five till. You'd better get going." Hughes says, "You'll have to find me after everything's calmed down. I've got some whiskey in my tent. That bet with Foss finally got settled."

"I'll see you." Roy nods.

"—And Roy." Hughes sighs, "You'll want to push that aside, not forever, but to survive this war. The longer you hold onto this, to everything—it's going to eat you."

All of the alchemists gather underneath an old building, now reduced to nothing but a concrete overhang. General Brenchley stands up on a mound of stones and rubble.

Hughes and the other squadrons should have cleared any smaller concentrations of those with weapons, and groups of civilians who decided to remain holed up in their homes. The alchemists come in to wipe out the rest, crawling across the district to destroy everything like cancer. The sweep will cause any survivors to pool in the center. Casualties were heavy in the last few districts, so everyone is ordered to circle back once the central attack starts in order to offer support.

He's supposed take the easternmost quadrant. There are pockets of rebels protecting streets and temples just a few hundred yards from his entry point. He'll only have five men to flank but it won't make much difference.

They walk for miles until the buildings grow dense enough to begin splitting off into alleyways. There are faint gunshots going off to the north, likely remnants of the light sweep that happened prior. Screams echo from what seems to be only a few blocks over.

Roy cuts through an empty road. The wind is unforgiving and the heat is a worthy accomplice to stinging eyes and sweat. In a cottage on his left he can see piles of furniture through the windows—the broken legs of a chair contorting to the ceiling, a table turned and covered in sand, and glass from the shattered windows—blood paints the mosaic. He peers a bit closer and sees the tattered blues of Amestrian uniforms, and it's then that he notices that the blood is fresh.

He keeps to the walls, crouching and peeking around corners. The wind has buffed any footsteps and reduced his hearing to nothing but billowing whistles. The gunshots are sounding off closer now, likely in the next block. The path up ahead looks clear. As Roy darts across the dirt road, a nearby building blocks the gusts just enough to hear boots up ahead.

"What have you done?!"

An Ishvalan man is huddled in the corner. He clutches his belongings close as though they're the only thing left to be torn from him. Two lieutenants have blocked him in, bayonets at the ready.

"There was an ambush." They say, "They got Kesby and Strutton."

"And the rest of their men?"

"He's all that's left, Major."

Roy waits a few seconds then turns back for the entrance. "Meet me outside. Sixty seconds." He says.

The surrounding walls aren't enough of a boundary to muffle the man's protests. He screams for only a few seconds before going silent. The lieutenants slip through a large hole in the building, Roy has to hush them as they boast and remove the bloodied blades from their guns.

"Get down. On my count I want you both to run for that northeast wall there." Roy says. "On three. One...two…"

Somewhere above he can hear shuffling.

"Three."

They bolt across an expanse of dirt and rubble, gunshots start to patter across the dirt and ricochet off of rocks and the surrounding brick. Once they find cover just past the wall, Roy waits for the shots to lessen, another second and the shuffling starts again.

He catches them in the middle of reloading, using the sounds of the barrels clicking in place after exchanging the cartridge as a cue.

In a single snap the oxygen in the building is torn from their lungs, less than a second afterward the building begins its collapse to ashes.

The smoke offers cover allowing Roy to join the others.

"We're sorry sir, we didn't think to—"

"You were worried about the rest of the team. I can't fault you for that." Roy huffs, "The Ishvalans are usually a passive people. Except when someone attacks their own."

Throughout the east tremors can be felt through the night. During the day, the ever changing compounds pull the energy beneath them making it hard to keep their balance.

"We have to keep moving."

They take the quadrant in a matter of hours. After the initial explosion any of the remaining rebels are left in a panic, holding up their guns if sighted. But, Roy isn't allowed to take prisoners.

Just over a hill of rubble he can see the church that marks the district's center. Armstrong and McDougal have already drawn the south and west sectors, Kimblee should be coming in from the north. Ishvalans trickle into the open space surrounding the church where snipers line the roof, making some of them fall before they can reach the center. The shooter's heads bob up and down, peeking over the edge. Roy thinks he sees a flash of blonde underneath a hood. When he looks again he sees nothing.

On the north end, the ground slopes sharply upward, creating a wall to block in any stragglers. They allow that area to pool with civilians and wait for word to open fire. Roy begins to feel nauseous.

Kimblee steps out on a slab of concrete that juts out of its peak, "Such a beautiful day." He says, voice booming across the expanse. "I wish you could all live to see it!"

The pull of the compounds quickens, Roy can feel them growing in succession—particles are splitting too rapidly. Before he can turn to the lieutenants the ground splits beneath him.

They collapse into white noise, bodies, blood, and debris.

The chasm he fell through created the perfect pocket of protection. Only cuts and bruises line him, a broken rib, and a gash on his shin from the impact. Climbing out takes work that presses on his wounds. Once he reaches the top he sprawls out on the gravel.

Roy's ears ring as he feels around the bits of rock and dirt. Dust gathers in his lungs sending him into a fit of coughs and sputters. In the blurry distance he can see the city is coated red with the ashes of its citizens. The ringing does not stop.

He needs to find shelter quickly.

The temple grounds are nothing but jagged rubble. Slabs of marble from the temple interior jut up and out, pillars are torn from the foundation. Energy still crackles through them in tendrils of neon red.

He slides down one pile of rock to another moving quickly despite the cut in his leg throbbing with the pressure. Body after body and he finds signs of life in none—each more mangled than the next.

The pain grows too great forcing him to rest.

Roy makes scrap fabric from the sleeve of his shirt. The cut is longer than he thought. It draws an uneven zig zag from just under his kneecap to the center of his shin. Keeping it clean will be a hassle, but at least for now he can stop the bleeding.

Night falls just as he makes it to the north end where Kimblee stood. Everything beyond remains virtually untouched. There's a loneiness to it. From the parade of bodies to the empty streets he can't help but to feel the dread closing in.

Roy snakes through the buildings just as he had only hours prior. His limp creates uneven footsteps along the gravel, but he can't help but feel like there are a second pair that walk with him. Every so often they quicken and change pace.

Roy stops and rounds a corner.

"Show yourself," he says. "If you've been watching me then you know I'm in no condition to fight."

He glances down at his gloves and sighs. The friction from all the climbing and stone must have damaged the stitching.

The steps draw in closer until he can sense them just on the other side of the wall. Roy steps out with his hands up in surrender and finds no one.

It doesn't feel safe to keep moving. He climbs into the building through a broken window and ducks behind a partition that separates two rooms. The wind howls against the the remaining windows, making the otherwise silent night unsettling.

He tries to sleep in a corner, knees to his chest—but the footsteps start again. They seem to be running, but there's more of them this time. They dart past the windows then change direction one at a time. Roy grabs a shard of glass he finds in the dirt.

One of them runs inside just past the partition, they shuffle and slide behind the blown out panel of a bookshelf. Roy peeks out around the wall again and can see the soles of their shoes remain unhidden. He takes his chance and rushes over, shard at the ready.

"Please…"

Roy stops just short of him—the same man the lieutenants had killed before.

"Not again." He cries and lurches.

Roy's eyes widen as blood starts to spill from the man's bayonet wounds.

"Please." He repeats.

The red pools around his body, causing Roy to take a few steps back. He searches frantically through any intact drawers and cupboards. He finds only an empty lighter and tattered shoes. The laces will do for a tourniquet. When he returns the man is gone.

For a moment Roy runs his hands along the dusty remains of the floorboards. He finds that there is safety in silence.

When the sun rises he starts searching for water. There's sense in heading west but the alleyways of Ishval spin him just enough to lose track of how many rights and lefts. The sun's already at midday by the time he finds a water pump.

The first few tries only result gurgling from the pipe. On the fifth try water comes out brown and muddy, he lets it run a few seconds before it goes clear. His hands don't hold nearly enough, so he quickly ducks down to drink what he can directly from the faucet.

Roy lets the water run over him, cooling down his face and wetting his hair. It covers up the sense of the unsettling presence and the now too-frequent crunch of dirt underneath a second pair of boots.

He pulls away to wash his wound but stops just short of pumping again when he sees someone just ahead of him in the alley.

The waves of heat obscure any details, but the figure starts drawing closer. They don't move quickly and they don't seem to be proceeding with much caution. Roy pulls the same shard out of his pocket, quickly moving to get ready. But as they cross the midline between the beginning of the alley and the pump, Roy can make out blonde hair and torn military blues.

"Major? Major Mustang?" She says, and her pace quickens towards him.

"Riza Hawkeye?"

She's ripped the sleeves off of her shirt and uses some of the leftover to make a bandana. Bruises line her arms and there's a cut just above her eyebrow. The rest of her is coated in a fine layer of dust and sweat.

"You got caught up in it too?" Roy asks.

"The explosion brought down the building. It looks like it destroyed everything for a three hundred yard radius."

"You're not injured?"

"Nothing serious." She says.

They return to the same building with two helmets full of water. He explains the strange sounds and the man who bled out there.

"The heat's getting to you." Riza says, "The temperature changes at night, it plummets quickly. It'll send you into shock."

Roy pulls one of the helmets over and uses it as a basin. He washes out the rags for his wound and replaces them. The bleeding stopped, but the water and dirt make the wound sting.

Before sundown they both go looking for anything they can eat. Roy finds a pistol and rations in the pockets of dead soldiers. He tries not to think of their weight or how stiff they feel against his hands.

"It stinks." Roy sighs, "I can barely tell the difference between the scent of the burned flesh and the ones only rotting."

"I'll be sure to let you know if I find a candle, Major."

"We never stay long enough to see all this."

For the first time Roy takes in the city in full light. Smoke billows in all directions, and the silence is only broken by the occasional gust of wind. Corpses litter the streets and buildings with people's belongings and glass from the shattered windows thrown in. He knows exactly which markings belong to which alchemist, and which quadrants at least had the fortune of dying quickly.

He tears the dog tags off of any soldiers he finds, Amestrian or otherwise.

"They have the audacity to call this a cleansing." Roy snarls, "These people don't even get the respect of a proper burIal."

Riza takes a few steps ahead of him. She looks up at the rooftops, seemingly measuring the distance between them.

"We have the favorable position. Neither of us have to feel anything. We can distance ourselves from the victim. We can choose not to feel this pain—the blood on our hands." She says.

"You choose that?"

"No. But sometimes, I wish I would."

This night seems colder than the last. They each have half a ration and Roy finds himself shivering against the wall. The fire they build crackles and grows steadily but brings no relief.

By morning he's sweating, and his body aches.

Together they travel back to the water pump. Roy tries to keep a firm grip on any strength. He blames the heat, but his knees buckle under his weight and his hands tremble against the helmet. They stick close to walls in case Roy needs a break.

"Is there anything I can do?" Riza asks.

"No, it's just dehydration. This place is a death trap."

She lets Roy drink first and keeps watch.

They try to head further east. If there were any search parties to be had they would have done a sweep of the sector by now.

Roy tries to push away the constant dizzying. The wind dries his cold sweats, seeming to push him forward and back in a sway. The uphill battle outside of the city the is nearly too difficult to endure.

"You're blistering." Riza says, "That overhang up ahead will be our stop today."

He doesn't argue.

It looks like the remains of an old tarp that would cover a market stand. Crumbled rock creates a makeshift set of walls. Roy props himself up against a post.

"I'm going back to the pump." Riza says, "I shouldn't be long."

"Hey, Hawkeye?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you." Roy sighs.

When she walks off Roy undoes his cut is no longer bleeding but it's raised and draining—his skin red hot.

"Dammit." He hisses, "Why now?"

If he can find Hawkeye they can keep moving to find help. He leaves the shelter and turns down the nearest street, breathing hard. Inhaling the surrounding dust tears at his lungs. The ground beneath him seems to warp into waves causing him to collapse to his hands and knees.

Roy turns his head to see how much distance he's made between where they were and the end of the alley. But he blinks and there's something drawing in closer. On four legs it starts at a walking pace and then a trot, then a run. He tries to make out the shape of it, but the form changes too quickly. Its skin is black as though burned, and as it gains speed its teeth grow more bared in a snarl.

He uses whatever strength he has to take off running, but it's only enough to stumble a few steps. Quickly, Roy tries to reach for the pistol. Footsteps gather in rapid succession, sliding past him, behind, and even through. He hears the man's voice with the bullet wounds, the growls of the beast, and the screams of people as fire burns around them.

When he fires they all vanish. But still, he can smell smoke and flesh and burning. It takes the rest his energy to get up and turn only to find the barrel of the gun.

It's Riza: she's beautiful, no longer covered in dirt and blood. She smiles when she pulls the trigger.

* * *

"Excuse me, Captain? Are you leading the search party for the eastern quadrant today?"

Hughes turns, crate in hand just as he was the morning prior. "Yeah, that'd be me. Why?"

"I'm looking for someone." She doesn't hesitate before setting her rifle down in the truck bed and pulling herself in after.

"You should probably ask your superior offic—"

"There's only search parties today. The explosion caused so many casualties they can't even do a proper headcount."

"You're not wrong about that." Hughes sighs, "Fine, but you follow my orders, no straying off on your own to find your friend."

They take the truck out to the ruins. The perimeter stands in a casing of leftover walls, they can still see some smoke coming up from the crater in the middle. The rest of the company fans out combing over alleyways to cover more ground.

Hughes makes the decision to retrace Roy's steps.

"If he started by heading in east to the chokepoint, it's a safe bet he'd try and come back out the same way."

Riza nods, biting back the thought of him crawling through the rubble.

Everything around them seems to have stopped and grown silent. The wind does not rattle the ragged canvas hanging from torn down merchant stalls and there are no gunshots from on the horizon. Even their footsteps against the ground seem quiet now.

"What's your friend's name, Cadet?"

"He's a major. Major Mustang."

Hughes closes his eyes and stops, taking a breath before he can continue, "Right, well. Let's keep looking."

They pass windows with old blood—every step seems to kick up an empty bullet casing. Three buildings down and the only thing they can find is ashes.

"I'm going to go a bit further." Riza says, "I'll call out if I find anything."

The further she goes in the more the bodies begin to turn up. She searches for dark hair and gloves. Each time she turns one over they seem to be missing their dog tags.

There's a helmet a quarter ways full of water and a pile of old bandages in a shack. She expects he'd have kept pushing forward. Luckily, the wind hasn't completely wiped away his boot prints. She follows them down the road and to the mouth of the alley.

Riza finds him face down in the dirt with the pistol only a few inches from his hands. She turns him over and chains fall from his pockets, littering names around her feet.


End file.
